It was time to leave.
Three friends came for me at around two in the morning. Mutti held up the Quran and I passed under it. From a jug, she splashed water on the hallway floor to ensure I had a safe journey. I kissed her one last time and hurried down the staircase. Outside on the street, I looked up; the open window framed her small face; she leaned out to take one last look at me. We waved, blew kisses, whispered good-bye. The street was dark and quiet in that early-morning hour and the August air cool, not frigid like the last time.
We didn’t take the fastest route, avoiding the highway I had taken eight months earlier. We drove through the city streets. I was quiet and pensive. This might be the last time I would see the city where I was born, and which I had always loved. I took in the streetlights, the buildings, all the familiar and unfamiliar landmarks. We passed by Tehran University and the Azadi Tower; I caught a glimpse of the new Milad Tower, which, when finished, would be Tehran’s tallest building. Near the airport, I saw families, some with children, picnicking along the pavement and on the grass along the street while waiting for their passengers to arrive from abroad: Iranians eating, chatting, being together, following age-old traditions, even though it was two in the morning. Inside the airport building, there were large crowds, pushing, standing on tiptoes, bouquets in hand waiting for arriving relatives.
We went, as arranged, to a special lounge, where you pay a little extra for expedited customs and passport procedures. In my last telephone conversation with Hajj Agha, I had insisted Ja’fari be at the airport; I didn’t want some last-minute hitch or some rogue operators barring my departure, hauling me off to prison again. “Another sleepless night because of you,” Ja’fari said, as if I were to blame for the conundrum they were now in a hurry to end. As we waited, I only half heard Ja’fari’s attempt at small talk until the call to board the aircraft came over the loudspeaker.
I embraced my friends, walked through the metal detector, held up my hands for body inspection, and headed down a hall leading to a long corridor to the plane. Ja’fari could not accompany me farther. He walked rather alongside me on the other side of a glass wall that separated passengers from non-passengers for the full length of the hall. For about a hundred paces we walked like this, in lockstep, as if still bound together, with only the glass wall between us. Finally, my path took a sharp turn left; Ja’fari remained standing there. I was rid of him at last.
I took my seat and called Mutti on my cell phone. I told her I had boarded and would call her from Vienna. I would not really feel safe until the aircraft had taken off, crossed the Iranian border. But there was an unexpected delay. The hostess and the ground crew kept on going up and down the aisle and counting the passengers: once, twice, three times, five times. The pilot announced that there was a missing passenger; we would have to disembark if he or she were not found. We sat on the tarmac for another thirty minutes. Finally, they solved the mystery: a small child who had been assigned a seat had been in his mother’s arms. The hostess secured the plane door and I heard it click shut. This time, the sound of a door closing signaled my return to my family, my friends, and my freedom.
EPILOGUE
IN SEPTEMBER 2008, ALMOST EXACTLY a year after I had returned home, I received a formal-looking envelope from the Iranian Mission to the United Nations in New York. Inside was an invitation from the ambassador to a reception for President Ahmadinejad, who was going to be in the city for the opening session of the UN General Assembly. The irony was overwhelming. The very government that a year earlier had branded me a spy, an agent of Mossad and the CIA, an enabler of “soft revolution,” and a threat to national security was inviting me to appear in the same room with the Iranian president and perhaps to engage with him in idle chatter as he circulated among his guests. But I should not have been surprised. Iran’s leaders are heedless of the damage they do to their own citizens and the havoc they inflict on the lives of individuals and families. They assume everyone else is as indifferent to basic human decency as they. They pretend to forget what they did to me—and the worse torment they inflicted on countless others. But I cannot forget.
ON MY WAY HOME from Iran after my release, I spent four days in Vienna, alone with Shaul and Hayedeh. After eight months of suppressing my feelings, calculating every word and weighing every move, I needed time to unwind. By the time we returned to Washington, I was ready to face the world. I held a press conference and gave many television, radio, and newspaper and magazine interviews.
I knew the best therapy for me was work and a return to my normal routine. I arrived home on a Thursday; I was back at work on Monday morning. I had to prove to myself and my family and friends that I was the same Haleh, and that Evin had not broken my spirit or my will. Besides, I had been jailed, accused, and hounded by the Iranian Intelligence Ministry because of my Wilson Center activities. I wanted to send a message to Ja’fari, Hajj Agha, and their bosses that they could not cow me. I would continue doing exactly what I had been doing in the past.
Ja’fari telephoned me almost immediately after my arrival in Vienna and then again, about a week later, in Washington. He inquired insistently after my health. In Evin, he and Hajj Agha had been indifferent to my physical well-being. Now that I was out of their hands, they were alarmed lest I experience a relapse or tell the world of the physical damage solitary confinement had done to me. Ja’fari was aware I was giving interviews and had written an account of my incarceration for the Washington Post and had coauthored an essay for the Chronicle of Higher Education. He was worried as to what I might say. After these early phone calls and a couple of e-mails, however, I never heard from him again.
In those early weeks, I remained physically frail and psychologically fragile. The slightest noise would make me jump; a stranger at the door caused me panic. “You’re home; you’re safe. They cannot touch you here,” Shaul would say. But I could not shake off the feeling that my interrogators were still at my heels; their eight-month intrusion into my life still haunted me.
I began to heal. I recovered the weight I had lost. I threw myself into my work and returned to a full schedule in the Middle East Program. I went back to my daily routine at my gym, exercising not in the manic Evin way, but in the old way—measured, tempered, and alongside friends. I took strength from the embrace of my family and the warm welcome of my Wilson Center colleagues.
I was overwhelmed by the support I received. Cards, flowers, and chocolates arrived from friends and from people I did not know. I received a poem one of our oldest friends had written for me while I was in Evin, “I Have a Friend There Too.” A colleague at the Wilson Center sent me Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman.” As in Tehran, I was stopped in supermarkets, malls, and cafés, on the Metro, and on the streets by strangers who recognized me. They came up to say they were happy to see me back and that they had prayed for me. The words “welcome home” took on a new meaning for me. And everyone was concerned about Mutti. Even today, the first question I am asked if I am recognized or introduced to someone new is “How is your mother doing?”
Mother is doing well. At ninety-five, she is, as ever, a woman of indomitable spirit. Since Hayedeh and I could not risk returning to Iran, we both traveled to the Persian Gulf sheikhdom of Abu Dhabi in November 2008, and Mutti met us there. The trip, though short, was still difficult for her. Iranians all, we had to meet on foreign soil; but for three days we took pleasure in one another and in our reunion. She worries, of course. True to form, the Islamic Republic has not brought closure to my case; nor has it lifted the lien on Mutti’s apartment, leaving both hanging like a sword of Damocles over my head.
I still have nightmares about Evin. I sometimes wake up not knowing where I am. The birds chirping at five in the morning outside our Potomac home bewilder me; I think I am hearing the birds chirping at dawn outside Evin Prison. The scars of prison never really heal. I have discovered that the confidence one once had in the basic stability of things never returns; once experienced, the f
ear of power-bloated men who think they can do with you what they will is never fully erased.
But I have grown wiser and more appreciative not only of the material comforts I unthinkingly enjoy every day—a leisurely cup of coffee, a moment in the sunlight, the reassuring touch of Shaul’s hand on mine—but of the freedom with which I am blessed.
I have come to value with every fiber in my body the freedom to speak, think, read, and associate with others; I appreciate as never before the idea of government subject to the rule of law. Autocrats and dictators may bring order and stability; but in the end, not answerable to the will of the people or anyone else, they grow reckless, trampling on human freedom and individual rights, wrecking their societies and their countries.
In every talk I have given since my return, I have reminded my audience of these common truths; and I have emphasized the need for all of us to speak out against governments and rulers who consider themselves above the law, who prey on their unprotected citizens. I was fortunate that my imprisonment captured worldwide attention; I owe my freedom to those who took up my cause. But what of others? We need to find more effective ways to be heard and to mobilize international opinion for the many thousands of prisoners of conscience around the world who are imprisoned, terrorized, tortured, and raped, yet have no one to speak for them.
I have lost none of my devotion to Iran, even though I never had much affection for its current government. I continue to believe—or hope—that I will someday return to an Iran whose government is subject to the rule of law and whose leaders respect the rights of their citizens and treat them with decency.
I continue to believe that the governments of Iran and the United States should sit at the same table and talk to each other. Thirty years of estrangement have yielded nothing of value, and I believe that change is more likely to come to an Iran that is engaged with the rest of the world rather than isolated from it.
WHEN I RETURNED HOME in September 2007, my reunion with my daughter, Haleh, and my grandchildren, Ariana and Karenna, was particularly emotional for me. All three met me on the front lawn of our house in Potomac. Haleh had managed to keep them thinking about me, but to shield them from the story of my imprisonment. At the age of four and six, they wouldn’t understand why their grandmother was in jail. After I embraced them both and sat them on my knees, my youngest grandchild, Karenna, said, addressing me in her usual way, “Mamma Joon, don’t you ever go away for such a long time again.”
“No,” I whispered to her. “I won’t.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would not have been released from Evin Prison and allowed to leave Iran had it not been for the efforts of my husband, Shaul Bakhash; my daughter, Haleh Bakhash; my mother, Fanny Esfandiari; and my sister, Hayedeh Oviedo. For eight months they worked ceaselessly to gain my freedom. They were supported by tens of thousands of people from across the world: friends, colleagues, politicians, journalists, intellectuals, and ordinary citizens who added their voices to the campaign to free me.
I was fortunate to work at the Woodrow Wilson International Center for Scholars, where we all are one family. I am grateful to Lee Hamilton and Mike Van Dusen, the unsung hero of this saga who worked behind the scenes to push hard for my release. I also thank Sam Wells, Cynthia Aronson, Blair Ruble, Philippa Strum, Robert Hathaway, Christian Ostermann, Geoffrey Dabelko, Andrew Selee, Paulo Sotero, and the directors of other programs and projects at the center, and my colleagues and staff at the Wilson Center who for four months worked tirelessly to assure my return. Wilson Center board chairman, Joseph Gildenhorn, tapped every connection he could in the United States and abroad to facilitate my release.
I feel a special debt to my colleague and friend Robert Litwak, who made sure every scrap of paper that was needed from the Wilson Center found its way to Shaul and to me in Tehran. My former assistant, Azucena Rodriguez, worked unremittingly to provide all the information about the Middle East Program that my interrogators demanded, and maintained the Middle East Program while I was gone. My previous assistants at the center, Jillian Frumkin and Julia Bennett, helped identify work we had done many years earlier. William Green Miller spoke on my behalf with Ambassadors Javad Zarif and Mohammad Khazaee at the Iranian Mission to the United Nations.
Sharon McCarter, the head of outreach and communications at the Wilson Center, headed an extraordinary team to keep the American and international press up to date on my ordeal. In this, she was ably assisted by Erin Mosely, Vicki Dodson, and others. My sister, Hayedeh, handled the European press. My former colleague Ben Rhodes was helpful in more ways than I can count, and my colleague and friend David Hawxhurst assisted me in putting together the photographs for the book.
I cannot adequately thank the advisory group that was formed to help the Wilson Center in its efforts to free me. Cheryl Benard put out the Free Haleh bumper sticker, circulated a petition at the summer 2007 Vienna conference of Women Leaders Networking for Peace and Security in the Middle East, and raised my case with several influential people. Melanne Verveer, from Vital Voices Global Partnership, committed her organization to my support. Henri Barkey represented us in a meeting with Kofi Annan in Geneva. Tara Sonnenshine was persistent in coming up with ideas for new initiatives. Clare Wolfowitz worked with a team consisting of filmmakers Jeff Kaufman, John Langley, Tyne Daly, Autumn Mason, and Nick Kirgo to produce a TV video on me and my work.
Friends outside the center put into motion a highly effective machinery to publicize my case. Zainab Al-Suwaij, the executive director of the American Islamic Congress, and her colleague Nasser Weddady set up the Free Haleh Web site and collected more than ten thousand signatures, including signatures from courageous residents in Iran.
I am indebted to my former students at Princeton, who signed a letter to Iranian leader Ayatollah Khamenei. Cherry, Erin, Parinaz, and Jonathan formed the core group, located their former classmates all over the world, and hand-carried the letter to the Iranian Mission to the United Nations in New York. My thanks also go to my friends and colleagues in Princeton—Andras Hamori, Leon Carl Brown, and Hossein Moddaressi—and to Shaul’s colleagues at George Mason University for their efforts and advice.
I owe special thanks to my lawyer, Nobel laureate Shirin Ebadi, who mobilized other women who had won the Nobel Peace Prize to speak for me, wrote to the UN secretary-general, and publicized my case in numerous interviews with the international press. My good friend and relative Mahnaz Afkhami, the president of Women’s Learning Partnership, and Nayereh Tohidi mobilized women’s groups. On every possible occasion, Swanee Hunt, Carla Kopell, and Alma Gildenhorn reminded people of my incarceration.
My Arab women friends set up support groups and worked for my freedom in various Arab capitals. My special thanks go to Hind Kawabat, Rola Dashti, Fatima Sbaity Kassem, and the businesswomen I met in conferences in the Middle East. Amal Kashef al-Qita and several other Iraqi women lent their voices to the call for my freedom.
I am also grateful for the friendship, efforts, and concern of the members of my reading group: Jacqui, Clare, Gisella, Rachel, Susan, and Joan. As a gesture of solidarity, they agreed not to meet in my absence.
Ali Banu Azizi and Hormoz Hekmat were instrumental in drawing up, circulating, and securing signatures for the petition issued by the Middle East Studies Association. Robert Silvers, the editor who led the effort of the New York Review of Books, published the petition and encouraged several prominent intellectuals to sign it. Karim Sajjadpour was a source of sound advice and unfailing support. I will never forget the grace of Juan Cole and Chibli Mallat, who refused to attend academic conferences in Iran as long as I remained in prison. At the initiative of John Warden Sr., the New York Bar Association issued a detailed brief on my case.
Many close friends steadfastly stood by us at this difficult time. Farrokh and Guity, and Shahrzad and Reza were Shaul’s closest confidantes, and provided unstinting support and homes where he could unwind and share his thoughts. Reza helped Shaul monitor th
e international and Iranian press and devise strategies for dealing with the attacks on me by Iranian media and Iranian officials. Farideh shared her personal experiences with Shaul and helped him analyze government statements about me.
Strobe Talbott, Martin Indyk, Barham Salih, Nicholas Burns, and Susie Nemazi and her husband, Sir Peter Westmacott, interceded on my behalf with foreign diplomats and statesmen, as did Secretary of State Madeleine Albright. Michael Postl and Peter Launsky-Tieffenthal of the Austrian Foreign Ministry went out of their way to be of assistance. Bonnie McElveen-Hunter, the chairman of the board of the American Red Cross, sought permission for the International Red Cross to visit me. Senators Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton issued statements calling for my release, and Senator Clinton also mobilized other women in the Senate to urge UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon to intercede on my behalf. Senators Barbara Mikulsky and Ben Cardin and Congressman Chris Van Hollen of Maryland sponsored the Senate and House resolutions that called for my release. Alan Makovsky did the staff work on the House resolution.
My special thanks to Joe Reeder, Robert Destro, Marshall Breger, and their colleagues for suggesting and helping shape the letter addressed to the Iran’s supreme leader that played a decisive role in my eventual release.
Barbara Slavin, Elaine Sciolino, Elizabeth Farnsworth, and Ute Sassadek were journalists who not only wrote about me but also used their contacts to urge my release. Ute and Heidi Schmidt were instrumental in involving Austrian president Heinz Fischer in my case. I am grateful to numerous other journalists from America to Pakistan and Brazil to Spain who wrote about me and helped keep my case alive.
I also owe thanks to my brother, Siamak, and my cousins, Gilan and Goli, Mina, Nahid, Vahid, and Sohrab for their steadfast support; to Lili, the believer in the family who didn’t stop praying for me; and to my son-in-law, John Warden; and my brother-in-law, Patrick Oviedo, whose lives were put on hold for eight months because their wives were so busy trying to get me out.
My Prison, My Home: One Woman's Story of Captivity in Iran Page 24